Campaign For Heaven
by Enochian Whisperer
Summary: While Team Free Will has been duking it out with demons and fallen angels on Earth, something is amiss in Heaven, and everybody's favorite Roadhouse-frequenter, Ash, is very aware that there is trouble in paradise. With his sights now set on the angel Metatron, a new uprising in the afterlife is just what the Doctor ordered.
1. Prologue

Another day, another dollar.

That would've been an appropriate cliche to use, had there been money to be made at all. Not in the Roadhouse. Or Heaven's mock-up of it. No sir, this was not a working day, nor was _any _day a working day. Not in the domain of Doctor Badass.

Ash flung open the door of his private quarters, and strutted out to "Highway To Hell", fingering an air guitar like a rock star he could never have been.

_"Living easy, living free_  
_Season ticket on a one-way ride_  
_Asking nothing, leave me be_  
_Taking everything in my stride_  
_Don't need reason, don't need rhyme_  
_Ain't nothing I would rather do_  
_Going down, party time_  
_My friends are gonna be there too_  
_I'm on the highway to hell-"_

He soon gave up his guitar, and combed his fingers through his long locks, bobbing his head to the beat and he slipped behind the bar counter. He grabbed a cold Pabst from a never-emptying fridge, popped the tap back and bottoms up—

Ash downed the whole can in one go. Sighing in satisfaction from the taste (which he surprisingly never got tired of), he crushed the can in a fist and aimed for the trash bin, a receptacle that never filled. He let out a whoop, springing up on impulse, and he fidgeted, taking his air guitar back up and twining the strings with the bridge.

"I'm on the Highway to Hell-!"

A sudden chirp from beneath the counter broke his focus, and he looked to the old "Holy-Rollin' Police Scanner". The chirp was followed by a sharp keen, and Ash stooped to dig up his shabby computer. He reached for the remote, and turned off the stereo system, hunching over the counter as his clicked keys at a professional pace.

"What-?" he asked no one, face crinkling in confusion. After years of practice and study, Ash had become fluent in Enochian, yet he didn't know how to decipher this. His fingers scraped over his stubbed skin and he got to work dissecting the problem. However, said problem was much, _much_ bigger than he imagined.

The keen was constant, a single bandwidth of sound. There weren't any words though. It was only sound. Seconds later, more whines revved up on his scanner. Goose bumps prickled on Ash's skin.

Screams.

Angels were screaming.

"What the hell-"

Ash searched the wavelengths. Some of the screams procured words. Things like:

_Help us!_

What's happening?!

Father!

Help!

Anyone! Help!

The scanner was beginning to overheat. Ash grasped the monitor in terror. He looked around wildly. Seeing that nothing seemed to be disturbing his Heaven, his pried eyes returned to the scanner.

What the hell was happening to the angels?

The screams and cries continued for several minutes. Ash almost shut down the computer. It was overwhelming to listen to, but he ground through it. The scanner seemed like it was about to quit on him, however, and he realized his mistake when it began to smoke. He quickly commenced emergency shutdown.

"Abort–" he said, "Abort— ABORT!"

Ash sprang back and the computer combusted, unfurling white flames.

How it happened was beyond him, but the room suddenly jolted, and Ash was felled. He covered his ears when the air was pierced with unraveling voices of angels in agony. It should have been enough to kill him, but... you can't kill what's already dead.

When the clamor faded, the Roadhouse was left in disarray. Windows were shattered, chairs were tipped, tables shifted– the pool table was shoved up against the wall. The neon Coors light was smashed on its surface. Racks of shots, mugs, cocktails, flutes, pints and snifters were cracked and left in states of total disuse.

Ash was left with only one small ring, a flickering wisp of energy. He grasped at it desperately, crawling from behind the counter and staggering to his feet. His eyes searched the air vainly. He couldn't pull anything from the tiny noise, except one thing. It vanished instantly and the Roadhouse was deathly quiet. Ash's eyes wandered over his broken realm. A word on his tongue rolled off in question and breathlessness.

"_Metatron_."


	2. A Friend In Need

If it wasn't a redundancy of information, it would be appropriate to say that Pamela Barnes was in Heaven. Maybe in her case, "Heaven" was an understatement.

The Meadowlands. While Ash had his little afterlife niche carved out as the Roadhouse, Pamela Barnes was living large (which was by no means an exaggeration). Her scope of Heaven encompassed The Meadowlands. Not just one stadium, but the whole nine. She was bathing in the nightlife.

Pamela was in the American Dream Meadowlands complex, an outrageously large shopping-slash-entertainment center. She had just gotten out of Macy's with bags upon bags of clothes and other trinkets. It was great having a credit card that would never max out. She had two friends with her. They weren't real people, no, and she knew that. But she was absolutely okay with having figment friends. She was in paradise. After yet another day of roaming and spectating and gambling and indulging, Pamela was ready to rest. Even though technically she was dead and no longer _needed sleep_, per say, being able to wholesomely _rest_ was another beauteous phenomenon of Heaven.

She had eternally "rented" a hotel room which had a beautiful view of East Rutherford, New Jersey. She could see the New Meadowlands Stadium and the racetrack far off to the west from her 37th story room. She could see the city aglow with lights, ant lines of cars' head and tail lights zipping on the interstate and marginal roads abroad. The best part of her Heaven was that she could access any part of it instantly by opening a door. If she wanted to watch a harness race, she could open her front door and she would immediately be able to step out onto the track. She wasn't lying to Dean when she said it was amazing.

Pamela ended her night with a nice long hot bath and a glass of white wine. Robed, she stood at the double glass doors of her balcony, gently swishing the contents of her flute glass as she appreciated the breath-taking view and listened to the bustle of traffic below.

"_Pam!_"

Suddenly her door flew open, and in tumbling came Ash. Pamela jumped out of her skin, whipping around so fast that the towel turban she had done her wet hair up in collapsed from her head in folds, dropping to her feet.

"Ash, what the HELL-" she stirred.

"Pamela, listen to me!" the scruffy man cut her off, before she could tell him off for invading her privacy (again). "I need your help!"


	3. A Conflict Arises

"What the _hell_ happened here?" Pamela asked in disbelief when she first stepped into the destruction of Ash's Heaven. Ash had warned her to wear shoes before zapping them both back to the Roadhouse, and she stuck slippers on her feet. She simply couldn't believe what she was witnessing now. The bar was absolutely trashed. "Jesus Christ, it looks like a tornado ripped through here."

"It wasn't a tornado, Pamela," Ash told her, "Angels did this."

When Ash saw the anger flare in Pamela's restored eyes, he knew he was stepping on dangerously thin ice. "–_Not intentionally_," he amended. Of course, Ash had plenty of time to catch up with Pamela Barnes, and he knew very well how she felt about angels. He had to speak fast.

"Pamela, somethin's happened to the angels," he continued, "I dunno know what, but the angels are in deep, _deep _guano."

"What do you mean _something happened to them?_" Pamela asked, crossing her arms. She was still irked that Ash hadn't let her put on clothes before transport. But this was an emergency, her slummy friend insisted. She believed him, but she wasn't too pleased with the turn of their conversation. Sure, she was dead. Sure, she had her eyesight back. Sure, she had yet to witness "divine intervention" within her own piece of paradise. She didn't really need to hold grudges anymore. But deep down, she still would've loved to have an opportunity to gouge the eyes out of the angel that took hers. See how _"Castiel"_ liked it.

The mullet-crowned man had paused for moment longer than necessary.

"Ash?"

"—I think they fell," Ash concluded.

"Fell?"

"_Fell_. As in got their winged asses kicked out of Heaven."

"For real?" Pamela couldn't deny that this was sounding more like good news to her at this point.

"Pam, you don't get it-" Ash tried again, gesturing with his hands, "This is _bad_. Really, _REALLY_ bad. Heaven _ain't_ Heaven without angels."

"So what is it then?" Pamela folded her arms.

"... Dystopia."

"Ash, c'mon," the woman tried to reason, "If the angels are gone, so what?"

"HEAVEN! IS GONNA FALL! APART!" Ash suddenly erupted. "You're not getting it, Pamela! The angels are the keepers of Heaven! They are the thread that's been suturing our worlds together!" With a large sweep of his arm, he motioned to the room they were now standing in, "Look at this place, Pamela! I didn't do this! The angels did! WHEN THEY FELL. Somebody's gone and ripped out Heaven's collective stitches! And I'll BET MY ASS AND ALL THE BEER I GOT THAT THIS SOMEBODY IS AN ANGEL WHO CALLS HIMSELF METATRON!"

Pamela blinked. She had never seen Ash get so riled up before. Ever.

"–Okay Ash," she compromised, "calm down. We'll figure this out." God, she couldn't catch a break, could she? Not a long enough one, anyway. Pamela could already feel the rue seeping through the cracks. But maybe getting out of her old grind would be a new adventure in the making. She told herself this for optimism's sake.


	4. Grocery Shopping

Since Ash's Heaven was wrecked, Pamela housed him in hers, giving him a spare neighboring room. Ash had long been impressed by her Heaven, and he made a habit of visiting it more frequently than most. Which had lead to some rather awkward moments in the past.

The first thing that Ash set out to do was rebuild his computer. It wasn't easy, but having studied MIT in his previous life, it wasn't as if he didn't know what he doing. Mostly. He salvaged what parts he could from his nuked computer back at the Roadhouse, and terminally borrowed parts from his others. It was going to be a long process, though. The Fall had burned the holy Hell out of the Holy Rollin' Police Scanner, and he didn't have everything he needed to replicate it the exact same way. He modified where he could, but he ultimately set off to go "grocery shopping".

Pamela was left to her own devices, and for a little while, she was able to fool herself into believing that everything was still perfect, sinking back into disillusioned bliss. She didn't know exactly how long Ash was gone, but by the time he came back, she had seen at least twenty harness races and thirty-four football games. And this was in between hours of shopping sprees, fine dining, casino-hopping, and dates.

"I was starting to worry about you," Pamela remarked with surprise when Ash suddenly walked in on her eating with a party of four at a booth in a dimmed, but crowded restaurant. Carrying bags, Ash shuffled awkwardly over to join them.

"Well, fear not," he said, momentarily pardoning himself to Pamela's company, "the Doc is back in business." Pamela grinned.

"Great."

"...Could ya help me get the door?" Ash shifted an additional box in his arms.

"Oh-! Yeah-" she slid out of her booth, leaving her friends, and led him back to the kitchen door. She pressed the handle down and popped the door open, stepping out of his way.

"YOU ROCK, Pamela Barnes!" Ash announced to the whole restaurant and he stepped not into the kitchen, but right into his own hotel room. Pamela didn't mind the scene he made one bit. Ash was pretty sweet guy when it came right down to the fundamentals of human perspective. She closed the door for him, and let "Doctor Badass" get to work undisturbed.


End file.
